Want to know more about Kristjan’s Rise, book 1 in Four Stars over Ardatz: Journeys? Here’s the first chapter–the epilogue.

Chapter One

The sounds coming from the inner room were driving me crazy. I paced our living quarters without seeing the obstacles. One moment Sæbjort would be humming a soft tune, and the next she’d be shrieking at pitches I hadn’t known she could produce. This had been going on for too long. Something had to be wrong. I wanted to barge into our bedroom and see for myself that she was alright, but the midwife—my sister, as it happened—had made it abundantly clear that birthing was a woman’s job, and men were not wanted.

I wiped a hand across my face. All had to be well. I couldn’t imagine life without Sæbjort’s gentle guidance in my life. I might have been chief of our clans, but it was her voice as much as mine that led Storeheltur.

Another cry jerked me back toward the closed curtain that constituted the door. This time, though, there was a word in the inarticulate cries.

“Geirfinnur!”

Without waiting or even thinking about what I was doing, I thrust the tapestry aside and within three steps was beside my wife, her best friend giving way to me.

“Sæbjort, I’m here.”

Her face was pale, her knuckles white where they clutched the back of a wooden chair. She swayed back and forth, the moaning hum building again. I rested a hand on her back.

Froða huffed—a sound I’d known since childhood, and one I’d learned to ignore. “This is no place for a man, Sæbjort.”

In answer, my wife clutched my hand. The strength in her grip surprised me. I blew air out through my nose, not about to complain about the loss of circulation to my littlest finger—not with Froða glaring at me.

“Fine.” My sister shook her head. “Stay out of the way. Josebina, take this side.” She relinquished her spot to my wife’s closest friend to kneel in front of Sæbjort and started humming, a low and controlled sound I’d never heard before.

Yet, the repeating themes were simple enough that even I could pick up on them, and when my kæra broke off, her voice stollen by a contraction, Froða or Josebina would pick it up, keeping the music flowing—this song of my wife’s own making, forged in the midst of bringing our child into the world.

“I…” Sæbjort panted, her face pinched. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” Froða encouraged her. “Every woman who’s ever born a child has done this. You can too.”

Josebina rubbed Sæbjort’s back while my wife all but crushed my hand.

“It… It’s too… too much!” Sæbjort ended with a yelp.

“There has to be something you can do,” I beseeched Froða.

“Ferish Pools.” Froða shrugged. “She’ll not make the journey, but being in the water may help.”

“I’ll carry her if I must.” At last, there was something I could do! “Come, Sæbjort, let’s go.”

She took a couple of steps, but a contraction seized her, and she was rooted in place, groaning and crying out. “I… I… can’t.”

“Will you let me carry you?”

Sæbjort nodded. “Put me down if it’s too much.”

“I will.” Defying my sister to stop me, I gathered my wife into my arms.

When she wrapped her arms around my neck, leaning into my shoulder, she fit perfectly. Well, not like she had nine lunar cycles earlier, but this was where she belonged, even if she was currently dripping some kind of fluid onto my trousers.

It took us twice as long as it would normally have taken to reach the cavern with the pools, but finally, we arrived. I gently drew Sæbjort’s robe off and placed it where it’d not get wet. Not eager to display my undershorts to my sister or Josebina, I glanced about. Froða had her back to me, and Josebina had gone to retrieve a poultice my sister had ordered. I shucked off my stained trousers, refusing to accept that there was blood on them—too much blood—and led Sæbjort into the hot springs. The moment the water touched her legs, her balance failed; I quickly pulled her against me, thinking to cushion her fall with my body if need be, but she landed seated in my lap, pushing me deep into the pool. My head barely stayed above the surface, and my hair floated out behind me.

Sæbjort’s humming turned into a moan.

“It’ll be fine, kæra.” I brushed her dark hair out of her face.

She smiled at me, but it was weak. “Promise me, you’ll be strong, Geirfinnur.  You’ll be there for our son.”

“Hush, kæra, hush.”

“No, you must promise me.”

Before I could reply, she arched her back and cried out. Froða was beside us in an instant. Her steadying presence kept the terror at bay, but not for long. One look at my sister’s face, and I knew something had gone terribly wrong. If it had been anyone else, I might have been fooled, but to her brother her eyes were as clear to read as the stars in the sky.

“Keep her steady, Geirfinnur. Don’t let her slide any deeper into the water.”

With a short nod, I held my wife to me. Tears worked their way down her cheeks; her breath came in short gasps.

The door opened, and Josebina’s face turned pale as she set a basket down near Sæbjort’s robe and hurried over. “How can I help?”

Froða shook her head ever so slightly. “Sæbjort, I’m going to see what I can do.” Her hands faded from sight under the water—water that was murky with red.

I blinked, but Sæbjortcried out, then bit her lip, distracting me from all else but her.

“Hush, kæra, hush.” I kissed her cheek, and she sagged into my chest.

“I can feel the baby’s head.” Froða’s voice was calm, but still her eyes betrayed her. “We’re almost ready, Sæbjort. All you have to do is push this little one out. Geirfinnur will hold you steady. You just push with the next contraction.”

Sæbjort nodded, then put her hand up to my face, blindly feeling for my cheek even as her shoulders pressed back into my chest—already falling into the rigor of the next surge. “Geirfinnur, you didn’t promise me.”

Her fingers felt so frail. Why couldn’t she have forgotten about whatever promise she wanted me to make?

“You’ll be strong for our child, won’t you?” She was panting; I could feel her body tightening. “You’ll be there teaching and guiding him. You won’t let leadership of the clan steal you from him, like it stole your father from you.”

At least that was something I could readily promise. “Yes, I’ll be there for the little one, but so will you, kæra. We’ll teach him together.”

Her fingers tightened on my cheeks, and she gritted her teeth. Her guttural groan was almost a growl like the snow cats that roamed Toppur.

“Good.” Froða encouraged. “Keep that up, and you’ll be holding this little one in your arms in no time.”

Sæbjort’s grip slackened, and she smiled—that lovely lifting of her lips that had drawn me to her six rotations ago even before Father had approached her father with a request for a betrothal.

Five more of those gut-wrenching growls, five more times squeezing the life out of my fingers, and Sæbjort fell limp in my arms with a weak cry.

“Keep her head above the water,” Froða ordered as she stood, a small red form barely discernible in her hands, still obscured by the thickening cloud of red.

“Is…” I licked my lips. “Is that…”

“Your son.” Froða’s expression softened the gruffness in her tone. “I need to bring him up and get the cord cut, but Sæbjort’s in no condition to help us. You need to lift her up onto the ledge.”

Blinking back tears as I watched my son squirm, I nodded. Soon, I had Sæbjort resting on the upper step where the water lapped gently at her ribs. Froða placed my son against Sæbjort’s chest and swiftly wound a thread tightly around the cord; she was probably glaring as she cut it, but I wasn’t looking at her. I was too caught up in the small life before me.

Sæbjort smiled, her hands enveloping the tiny body—a mother’s tender hands, holding her child, warming him, shielding him. “He’s beautiful.”

“Just like his mother,” I said, through a heart that was ready to burst.

“Kristjan.” Sæbjort caressed his dark head, her fingers too limp. “After my brother.”

“Yes. He was a good man.” But at the moment I would have let her name the boy anything.

“Kristjan, you’re going to be a strong man one step. Listen to your father. I…” Her eyes drifted closed, then sprang back open. “I love you, my son.”

For one strained moment her gaze was trained on him, but she could only hold out so long. Her eyes slid shut and her hand fell from his back, and Kristjan cried. The boy squirmed and without his mother’s steadying hand, slid from her chest. I snatched him up before he could fall into the water.

I examined my son. Such a large sound for such a small person. Every single detail was perfect—little fingers, toes, and eyes. He stared up at me, but it only broke me into pieces. He should have been looking up at his mother, learning the face that belonged to the loving voice of the one who’d carried him this far.

But no farther.

A sob escaped my lips.

Froða rested a hand on my shoulder. “Do you want me to take him so you can say your farewell?”

Numb, I handed Kristjan over to his aunt and knelt down beside Sæbjort. Her beautiful face was at peace. I caressed it, noticing a single tear that clung to her cheek.

Gone. With the ancients now. If the stories were true, no more to cry. I regarded that single tear, wondering if I should wipe it away, but if I did, then I’d accept what had befallen us.

Why? Why had she left me? The dam broke, and my own tears flowed, splashing into her hair and then running into the hot springs, flooding over her face until there were too many to distinguish between what had been hers and which were mine. 

I didn’t know how long I remained there, but when I’d cried more tears than I knew I possessed, I passed into a state of quiet unreality, like I’d passed into the halls of the ancients myself, and it was only my spirit that stood and dried myself off. My trousers were blood-stained; I didn’t want to put them on. They would bring me back into the mortal world, where everything was shattered obsidian. But I couldn’t be wandering Storeheltur’s halls in only my undershorts, so I slipped them back on, and none too soon. Froða returned with Kristjan.

“Here. Take him.” She held Kristjan out to me; he was bundled in a blanket but still squalling. “Josebina went to talk to Telma. She may be able to help us keep this little one alive.”

I hadn’t even considered that it would be possible to lose my son as well. Without thinking, I pulled Kristjan close to me, while Froða went to see to her sister-in-law’s body, and I stood there with a crying baby—and a hole in my heart.